In her current hidey-hole, Jamie Fleming sat at her computer.[1] The investigative blogger known only by her user-name, Orwell, was prowling the Internet, as she did every night. She knew Peter Fleming was dirty. She knew he was the criminal mastermind code-named Chess. And somewhere, out there in the ether of cyberspace, was the evidence she needed to prove it.

A telephone rang. The brunette glanced up. Four cell phones sat on the shelf above her. She concentrated for a moment. The number for this phone had only been entrusted to three people. Different people, different phones. Keeping her identity secret was a full time job.

"Hello."

She recognized Vince's voice right away. "I need your help. Rollo is in trouble."

"What's wrong?"

"Rollo was kidnapped."

She swore softly.

"I need you to tap into security cameras, find out who took him, and follow their trail. Can you do that?" Vince asked.

"Easy-peasy. When and where was he taken?" Orwell asked.

"Parisi's, on Chula Vista Boulevard, about two hours ago."

"I know it. Good lasagna." Her fingers danced over the keyboard, pulling up Parisi's website. "Why would someone kidnap Rollo? Is it related to the Cape, or is it because of something the Carnival of Crime did, or what?"

"It looks like he might have been collateral damage. The real target seems to have been Dr. Simon McKay. They were eating dinner together and they were both taken," Vince explained.

"Who's Simon McKay?"

"The Wizard."

"The who?"

"The Wizard. You know, the toymaker and inventor."

Orwell turned to her second laptop and Googled Simon McKay. "Why would anyone kidnap a toymaker?" Her eyes widened when Google came up with 25,243 hits. The first was his own website: www . thewizardofelmstreet . com. The second was his entry. The rest - she quickly skimmed the summaries - ranged from toys to computer programming, from weapons to missing persons, from bionics to Little People. "Hmm, more than just an ordinary toymaker." She looked over at the first computer. She had hacked into the traffic camera outside Parisi's, and had scrolled back two and a half hours. She fast-forwarded the video, watching for anything unusual. It took a few minutes as Vince waited impatiently on the other end of the line. "Bingo!"

"You found him?"

Orwell froze the picture on the screen. "Rollo and another Little Person were carried out to a dark blue van. No markings, license plate 944 JBF. Both unconscious, can't tell if they're hurt or not. The van went north on Chula Vista Boulevard."

The next hour was one of the most nerve-racking sixty minutes of Vince's life, rivalling when Dana went into labor with Trip and his time in the army in Afghanistan. Orwell would track the van as far as the security camera would let her. Then she would cast her cyber-eyes to the four winds, looking for all the nearby security cameras until she found one that had photographed the blue van. It was a slow, tedious process.

"Turn left on the corner of Rojo and Fedora," Orwell directed. Vince heard a ding in the background. "Hang on a minute, I think I may have something."

Vince wanted to bite his nails. He wanted to scream obscenities at the top of his lungs. Instead, he drove the motorcycle where she told him, then pulled over to the side of the road to wait for more information. And he waited. Then he heard Orwell use a word he had heard many times as a cop - felons have notoriously limited vocabularies - and in the army, but which he had never heard from her lips before. "What is it?"

"I had one of my computers searching for any new references to Simon McKay. Well, a video has just been posted to the Internet. Let me replay it for you."

There was a second's delay as Orwell put the phone next to the computer. Then Vince heard: "My name is Dr. Simon McKay. I am an inventor and weapons designer. My services are for sale to the highest bidder. The bidding starts at one million dollars."

Vince inhaled. "Can you track the video?"

"Teach your grandmother how to suck eggs, why don't you? Already on it," Orwell informed him. "Keep going on Fedora."

Alex went back to the hotel room he was sharing with Simon. He opened the bottom drawer of the dresser, pushed the clothes aside, and pulled out Simon's laptop. He plugged it in and waited impatiently for it to warm up. These days, old-fashioned legwork had been replaced by surfing the 'Net. Alex wasn't the expert with a computer that Simon was, but Simon was a good teacher. Alex could do a lot more than just send e-mail and play Plants vs. Zombies.

Once the computer was fired up, Alex set up a search program to watch for any new mention of Simon on the Web. Opening a new tab, he logged onto an IADC[2] website. He requested information on known felons, terrorists, etc. known to be in Palm City.

Alex was shocked by how quickly the website offered a list of names. A long list of names. Chess, Scales, Razer, Gregor Molotov, Guy Royal, and Ella Gaines were known to be in Palm City. Facial recognition software indicated it was probable that Raimonde LeFleur, Ali Hussein al-Nimr, and Nigel Katanga were in Palm City. LeFleur was an assassin; he wouldn't have bothered abducting Simon and Rollo. He would have just killed them in the restaurant. Al-Nimr was an information broker, rumored to have ties to al-Qaeda. Katanga was an arms dealer, primarily, but he'd also dabbled in drug smuggling and prostitution. Either of them might have grabbed Simon. Alex immediately set two more search programs going for any references to al-Nimr or Katanga.

He stood and stretched. He walked to the mini-fridge and grabbed a Coca-Cola. He had a long night ahead; he'd need the caffeine. Returning to the computer, Alex opened yet another tab, glad that Simon had souped up his laptop until it could do almost as much as a Cray. He hacked into the Palm City Police Department's computer system. Their firewall was good. The hacking program Simon had written was better.

He flipped from one webpage to another, checking on the progress of his searches, requesting more data on al-Nimr and Katanga. On a hunch, he also requested information on the Cape. He found information on a comic book character of that name. He found an official memo from ARK, the private security firm that had taken over the Palm City Police Department, to all police officers, that the Cape was urban folklore. He also found several reports from various officers mentioning the Cape, some describing him as a villain, some as a vigilante, one or two as a hero.

He heard the chime of a cuckoo clock, and scrolled back to see which search program had found what. The blood rushed from his face. He swore under his breath.

"My name is Dr. Simon McKay. I am an inventor and weapons designer. My services are for sale to the highest bidder. The bidding starts at one million dollars."

The recession had hit this neighborhood hard. Half the stores were boarded up and abandoned. The area was deserted, not even any winos or homeless. The blue van was parked in an alley behind an office building with a 'for sale' sign in the front window.

Vince hid the motorcycle behind a trash dumpster. He threw up a grappling hook; it caught on a window ledge. He tugged the rope. The grappling hook held securely. Up the wall he climbed. The window was shut but not locked; he let himself into the building easily.

Vince moved through the hallway as silently as a shadow. Had anyone been there to see him, he could have passed for a shadow. A voluminous black cape enveloped him. A black mask hid the upper part of his face. He wore black boots, slightly faded black pants, and beneath a blackened bronze chest-plate, a long-sleeved black shirt. Black leather gloves covered his far he had found nothing and no one. All the second floor offices were empty. He took the stairs to the first floor and began searching there.

The door to the staircase was by the bathrooms. Vince checked the men's restroom. No one was there, but one sink was slightly damp. Either it had been used recently or the faucet was leaking. He checked the faucet; it was shut tight. He watched for a second. There was no drip-drip-drip.

He almost passed by the women's restroom, out of habit. Then he stopped short. "Who puts a padlock on the outside of a bathroom?"

He pulled a lockpick out of his pocket and began working on the lock. As he picked the lock, he smiled to himself at the irony of rescuing Rollo with the lockpick that Rollo himself had given him and taught him how to use.

He flipped the light switch on. In front of the stalls was a cot. On the cot lay Simon and Rollo, their heads at either end.

Rollo started to stir. "Huh? What?"

Vince hurried to his side. He placed one hand on Rollo's shoulder, the other over his mouth. He shook gently. "Shhh."

Rollo's eyes opened wide. "Vi- " He closed his mouth before he could betray the Cape's secret identity.

Vince knelt beside Simon. He laid his right hand over the scientist's mouth so he couldn't cry out. He rested his left hand on Simon's right shoulder. "Dr. McKay? Time to go."

Simon opened his eyes. He blinked, so startled by the strangely-clad figure looming over him that he wondered if he were still dreaming. "Who? What?" he murmurred.

"I'm here to get you out of here." Vince removed his hand from Simon's mouth. He reached out to help Simon up.

"Who - who are you?" Simon asked.

"A friend," Vince replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Either of you hurt?"

"Not seriously." Rollo put his shoes on; neither of them had bothered to undress before trying to get some sleep.

"I wouldn't call an electric cattle prod nothing," Simon muttered.

"A cattle prod?" Vince turned to Rollo.

"My arm's sore," Rollo admitted. "I'll survive."

"You up to driving a motorcycle?" Vince asked.

Rollo nodded. "Yeah, I can manage."

"Good. Your bike is out back, behind the dumpster. The adapters are in the saddlebag." Vince had, of course, removed the height adapters so he could ride Rollo's motorcycle.

Rollo turned so Simon couldn't see or hear. He mouthed, "How will you get home?"

"I'll catch a cab," Vince mouthed back. Aloud, he asked, "How many black-hats?"

"Three," Simon replied. "Two thugs and their boss."

"Armed and dangerous," Rollo added.

"Let's get you out of here first. Then I'll come back and deal with them."

"Count me in." Rollo balled his right hand into a fist and slapped it into the palm of his left hand. "It's payback time."

Vince shook his head. "Your job is to get Dr. McKay out of here. My job is to take care of them."

Rollo scowled, then nodded.

Peter Fleming was suffering from insomnia. Again. He had too much on his mind to sleep.

His investigators still couldn't find a trace of his missing daughter. His police found all too many traces of the Cape, yet couldn't manage to catch the costumed fool. His five-year-plan was running a year, a year and a half, behind schedule, largely because of the Cape. He'd expected to have complete control of Palm City by now, not just its police and a few of its public services. He'd expected ARK to have taken over the policing of several other southern Californian towns.

Wrapping a satin robe around his silk pajamas, he headed for his laptop. Perhaps some mindless cyber-drivel would relax him. He played half a game of Peggle, but quickly tired of aiming a virtual pinball at orange circles. It seemed so pointless.

He went on-line. He thought about checking Orwell's blog, to see what lies the so-called "investigative blogger" was spreading about him now. No, it would only raise his blood pressure. He didn't need the aggravation. And when Orwell told the truth about him, it was even worse. He wondered who Orwell really was, and what it would take to stop the bastard. He wondered if someone on his staff was feeding Orwell information, and if so, whom.

If he found out one of his own people was selling information to Orwell, he'd need to contact Human Resources to make arrangements to pay out a widow's pension for that traitor.

Instead, he logged onto ARK's internal website. Had anything happened in his town that required his personal attention? And Palm City was his town, or would be, soon. Very soon.

One homicide: a battered wife who'd finally been pushed too far and struck back. Some robberies. A kidnapping. One dark eyebrow rose as he read the victim's name. Simon McKay. Fleming had been a mechanical engineer before becoming an entrepreneur: he was familiar with the diminutive scientist's work. He immediately started a web-search for any new mention of the tiny toymaker. Even kidnappers used the Internet these days. If ARK could rescue Dr. McKay, the good doctor would be in his debt. And he would be sure to collect the favor.

It took him only minutes to find a very interesting video posted on-line.

"My name is Dr. Simon McKay. I am an inventor and weapons designer. My services are for sale to the highest bidder. The bidding starts at one million dollars."

Fleming leaned back and templed his fingers together. Rescuing McKay would make Washington - and Dr. McKay - very grateful. Buying Dr. McKay ... that had its advantages, too.

As Alex disconnected the security system, he reflected that it was a good thing the average citizens didn't know how easy it was for the government to get information on them. Only the overwhelming volume of data ensured privacy. That, and the lack of interest. Joe Average's personal information was a drop in an ocean of gathered - and generally ignored - computer data. Once Alex had entered a request for information on al-Nimr and Katanga, the IADC had hacked into the security cameras at the Palm City Airport. According to facial recognition software, there was an 85% chance that Katanga had rented a car at the airport. Then the IADC had checked satellite images and security cameras all over town, reporting each time that car was spotted.

That car was parked two buildings away. Alex had checked out two stores, one vacant, one with a going-out-of-business sign. Both were empty. Now he was breaking into the office building on the corner.

Sometimes it worried Alex, the ethics of his job. He'd just broken into three buildings without a warrant. And if Simon weren't here, he'd go across the street and break into the buildings on that side. And he'd break into as many buildings as it took, until he found Simon. The CIC had long feared that something like this might happen - Simon kidnapped and sold to the highest bidder, then forced to design weapons for an enemy power or tortured for the classified information he knew. Alex's private fear was different. With all the alphabet soups in Washington - OSI, SIA, ISD, CIC, IADC, FBI, CIA, OWCA, NID[3] - he feared that someday some unscrupulous agent might grab Simon. All for the greater good, of course, in the name of national security. A lot of people had been upset when Simon had his crisis of conscience and left the Pentagon. Even more had been upset - outraged - when Simon had simply disappeared for six years. When he reappeared and set up as a toymaker, refusing to say where he'd been and what he'd been up to all that time, half of Washington had wanted to clap him into protective custody to prevent it from ever happening again. The CIC had had a hard time getting Simon to agree to a live-in bodyguard as a compromise. In the time they'd been together, Simon had become more than just an assignment. He'd become a friend. Almost a brother. And, Alex cursed himself, he hadn't been able to protect him. He'd not only failed in his duty, he'd failed his friend.

Alex eased the door open. The lobby was dark and deserted. No signs saying 'bad guys this way' with a big red arrow. Alex suppressed a sigh; just once, he would have loved a sign like that. He ignored the elevators. If this was the right place, the noise might alert the kidnappers. Drawing his gun from his holster, he listened carefully. He heard something off to the right. Slowly, silently, he headed in that direction.

He peeked around the corner. He definitely heard footsteps now. He saw two figures moving in the darkness, and both of them were short.

"Simon?" he dared to whisper.

"Alex!" The reply was barely above a whisper, but an excited, joyous whisper. Simon started to hurry toward him. Then a shadow placed a hand on the inventor's shoulder, forcing him to halt.

Alex blinked. Then he realized that what he had thought was a shadow was a man. A man in black clothing. "The Cape?"

Vince nodded. "Some people call me that. Let's get these two out of here, and worry about introductions later."

They had not gone more than four or five steps down the hallway when suddenly the lights came on, nearly blinding them. Squinting against the brightness, they could make out three men at the end of the hallway.

"Going somewhere, gentlemen?" they heard a British accent ask.

Vince reached into his utility belt, pulled out a smoke bomb, and threw. Before their eyes had time to adjust to the light, it was dark again. He grabbed Simon and Rollo's hands and tried to pull them to safety. Rollo's hand slipped out of his grip.

Alex fired. Answering fire came from the other end of the hallway. He fired again, and was rewarded with a moan of pain and Spanish profanity.

"Aim high," Katanga ordered. "Dr. McKay is of no use to me dead."

The smoke dissipated. Simon, out of breath, found himself next to Alex. He suppressed the urge to hug his friend. He knew better than to interrupt Alex at a time like this. His eyes widened as he saw Rollo rushing toward Jenkyns.

Rollo ran directly at Jenkyns, head-butting his stomach. Before Jenkyns could recover, he kicked his ankle sharply, then grabbed Jenkyns' arms. His right arm Rollo forced up, trying to keep the gun away from himself. His left arm Rollo pulled down with his not inconsiderable strength, and then bit the wrist. Jenkyns yowled.

Rollo saw a flash of ebony out of the corner of his eye. The Cape stood behind him. He smiled, grateful for the back-up.

Vince swung his fist. It connected with Jenkyns' jaw. Rollo kicked Jenkyns' knee. The gunsel fell backward. From the sickening sound, Rollo suspected he'd broken the man's kneecap.

"Federal agent," Alex announced. "Put the gun down, Katanga."

Vince furled a corner of his cape. As prehensile as a monkey's tail, it grabbed the gun in Katanga's hand. He pulled the cape back, and the gun fell to the floor. It discharged as it hit. Vince flinched. The bullet grazed his left arm before burying itself in the wall. His right arm was still fine, though, so Vince punched Katanga as hard as he could. Katanga staggered back, barely catching himself against the wall so he could remain upright.

Rollo kicked Lopez in the ribs. He wanted to make sure he wasn't healthy enough to rejoin the fight ... even if he hadn't owed him for the knifework.

"It's over, Katanga. Hands up." Alex didn't dare fire again, for fear of hitting Rollo or the Cape.

Vince glanced at the carnage in the hallway. It was over, or close enough not to matter. Agent Jagger could handle things from here. His presence would only complicate matters when it came to typing up arrest reports. He pulled a second smoke bomb from his belt. Under the cover of the smoke, he grabbed Katanga and flung him to the floor with a judo throw. Whispering a quick "Later" to Rollo, he hurried out the way Katanga and his men had come in.

When the smoke cleared, the Cape was gone. Katanga, Jenkyns, and Lopez lay on the floor, moaning softly. Alex blinked. The changes from dark to light and back again (and again) were hard on his eyes. He exhaled. "Are you all right?"

"Now that you're here." Simon took a deep breath. " 'Who was that masked man?' "

"Him Cape, kemosabe." Alex knelt and gave Simon a quick hug. Then he rose to check on Katanga and his men. He made sure they were disarmed, then handcuffed them with their own fetters.

"That's the worst Jay Silverheels imitation I've ever heard," Rollo complained. "Gotham City has Batman. Metropolis has Superman. Palm City has the Cape," he announced, unable to keep the smug tone out of his voice.

"Batman and Superman are comic book characters," Simon pointed out. "Imaginary."

"Actually, so is the Cape," Alex replied. "It's out of print, but it is a comic book."

"I thought you were the one who said imagination was everything, Doc."

"Actually, that was Einstein, but I've quoted him frequently." Simon had a poster in his lab at home with Albert Einstein's famous declaration 'To know is nothing at all. To imagine is everything.'

Alex checked the kidnappers' wounds. They wouldn't die. "Are you okay, Rollo?"

"Walking wounded. I'm hurt, but I'm healthy enough to get out of here. And the sooner, the better," Rollo declared.

Alex nodded. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to call 911.

"Thanks," Rollo said to the EMT who'd just finished bandaging his arm.

"You're welcome," she replied. "Now let's get you buckled in."

"Buckled in?" Rollo shook his head. "Sorry, honey, normally I'd love to take a ride with a beautiful woman, but I don't need to go to the hospital. You patched me up just fine."

"Sir, a doctor needs to see that arm."

"Naw, a good night's rest and I'll be right as rain." Rollo smiled up at her. "Now if you wanted to take me home and tuck me in?"

"My husband would object," she replied dryly. "Now buckle up, please."

Rollo started to scramble to the open door at the rear of the ambulance. Alex and Simon blocked the way out.

"Is there a problem?" Alex asked.

"He doesn't want to go to the hospital." The EMT packed up her first aid supplies.

"Don't have insurance," Rollo fibbed.

"The CIC will pay the bill," Alex promised. "But you need to have your arm checked by a doctor, and I need to have your wounds documented as evidence. I don't want these guys slipping out of court on a technicality because we didn't have all our i's dotted and t's crossed."

"I'll get Max to take a picture of them in the morning. Right now, I just want to go home and hit the sack."

"I doubt the buses are running this late. Don't be so stubborn. I'll drive you home once you're finished at the hospital. Or you can call one of your circus pals to pick you up; they're probably worried sick about you."

"I can-"

Simon interrupted before Rollo could say anything more. "Let me talk some sense into his thick head." He climbed into the ambulance and whispered to Rollo. "How are you going to explain to Alex that you can get home by yourself because the Cape brought your motorcycle here? Then he's going to want to know how you know the Cape."

Rollo inhaled sharply.

"I have two besetting sins," Simon confessed. "One is an incurable sweet tooth. The other is an insatiable curiosity, worse than Kipling's Elephant's Child. I'll control my curiosity this once, and respect your privacy, and his. But Alex is a CIC agent. He may feel obliged to investigate ...if he knows there's something to investigate."

Rollo nodded. Pete Ross had to help protect Clark Kent's secret identity. If he had to go to the hospital to protect Vince's secret identity ... "Okay, you win."

Simon had planned to be at the circus bright and early. However, after the excitement of the night before, he and Alex had slept in until almost ten. Between brunch and packing, it was past eleven before they arrived at Trolley Park. They saw the ringmaster wandering the grounds, a clipboard in hand.

"Sorry, we're not open yet," Max began. Then he smiled. "Oh, it's you. You look much better than when I saw you at the hospital last night."

"Is Rollo around?" Simon asked.

Max nodded. He turned to face a dark-skinned man who was juggling. "Ruvi, tell Rollo he's got company."

Ruvi nodded and headed into the big top. He wore a blue polo shirt, khaki slacks, and a turban.

"Rollo will be out in a minute. If you'll excuse me, please," Max lifted up the clipboard to bring it to their attention, "I need to finish the safety checklist before the audience arrives."

"Of course," Alex said.

Simon nodded. Max gave him a half-bow and returned to his work. Simon and Max looked around. The grounds looked ... wrong. It was almost like being in a Twilight Zone version of the circus: no eager children shouting gleefully, no music, no scent of cotton candy, no barkers calling people to the rides or the carnival games. The only people visible were the ringmaster doing his safety check, one man sweeping up the grounds with a push-broom, and another man washing the elephants.

"Hey, Doc!"

Alex and Simon turned to see Rollo coming toward them. Rollo started to shake hands with Simon. Instead, Simon clasped his wrist. Rollo did likewise. After the ordeal they'd been through, mere handshakes weren't enough.

"After what we've been through, it's Simon," the toymaker corrected. "How's the arm?"

"Hurts like hell," Rollo admitted. "Max says I can't work 'til the doctor gives his okay. Don't suppose you'd like to take my place in the show for a few days?"

His tone had been half-joking, but Simon's eyes lit up nevertheless.

Alex laid a restraining hand on Simon's shoulder. "We have to get home."

"Yes, but - "

"Siii -mon," Alex stretched his name out into a fond, but exasperated warning.

Simon sighed. "We really do have to be getting home. I just wanted to check how you were before we left."

" 'Preciate that," Rollo told him. "Sorry you can't stay longer."

"We need to get back to L. A., where it's safer. All I have to worry about there are the smog and the traffic jams." As Rollo chuckled, Simon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. "Here's my phone number and e'dress. Don't be a stranger."

"I won't," Rollo promised. "Before you go, though, I want you to meet a friend of mine." He turned to the brown-haired man washing the elephants. "Hey, Vince, come over here a minute."

Vince, a tall, muscular man in blue jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, turned off the hose and hurried over to Rollo, Alex, and Simon.

"I want you to meet my friend Vince," Rollo announced.

Simon noticed the bump under the left sleeve. It was right where the Cape would need a bandage from the bullet grazing him the night before. He politely didn't mention the bump, or his suspicions. "Simon McKay. This is my friend, Alex Jagger."

Vince shook Alex's and Simon's hands. "Vincenzo Malini," he introduced himself, "but my friends call me Vince."

Max looked up from the carousel motor he'd been examining. He smiled at hearing the name. His white sheep brother was accepting his place as part of the Carnival of Crime ... even if he was the only law-abiding member of the family.

[1] "To avoid complications, she never kept the same address. In conversation, she spoke just like a baroness."

[2] Inter-Agency Defense Command, from the 70's The New Adventures of Wonder Woman TV show on CBS

[3] OSI, $6,000,000 Man, Bionic Woman, SIA, It Takes a Thief, ISD, She Spies, CIC, The Wizard, IADC, The New Adventures of Wonder Woman, FBI, Criminal Minds, Without a Trace, Numb3rs, Sue Thomas F. B. Eye, Bones, etc., CIA, The Agency, OWCA, Phineas and Ferb, NID, Stargate SG-1.